Once, as she struck against him he heard her low laugh at his ear.
"It's like a little earthquake," she said, steadying herself with a
grab at his coat.
"There must have been a big earthquake here once," he answered. "Look
at the rocks. They've been split as if a great force came up from
underneath and burst them open."
She craned her head forward to see and he looked back at her. Her face
was close to his shoulder, glowing with the dampness. It shone against
the shadowed interior rosily fresh as a child's. Her eyes, clear black
and white, were the one sharp note in its downy softness. He could see
the clean upspringing of her dark lashes, the little whisps of hair
against her temple and ear. He could not look away from her. The
grinding and slipping of the horses' hoofs did not reach his senses,
held captive in a passionate observation.
"You don't curl your hair any more?" he said, and the intimacy of this
personal query added to his entrancement.
She glanced quickly at him and broke into shamefaced laughter. A
sudden lurch threw her against him and she clutched his arm.
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